The Child of Arkham
by MC-CAT
Summary: Haunted by a terrible secret, Amy Hatzler has been an inmate of Arkham Asylum for many years, shut away by rich parents who considered her a liability to the esteemed family name. Now that Arkham has been destroyed, Amy must return to the real world.
1. Breaking the Surface

DISCLAIMER: I do not (and never will) own the Batman universe or any of its characters. All rights and such are to their respective owners. The only characters that are original are the Hatzlers, so please don't steal them! :)

**The Child of Arkham**

_**Prologue**_

It's a funny thing, death. You spend most of your life fearing it, avoiding any possibility of meeting it. Dreading that moment you're your world goes black. Other times, you wish for it. You pray one day it will wash over you, like some cleansing water, purging you of pain and fear.

Then, the moment it happens, the day you do enter the abyss, you feel nothing of the sort. There's no fear, no catharsis, only relief. Death is peaceful…easy. Like going to sleep after a day fraught with nothing but sorrow. Life is harder.

_**Chapter 1**_

Live here long enough and you truly do believe you're crazy. When every second you hear the screams of the schizophrenics and the neurotics and the psychotics, the world just seems like one black blur. Or maybe that was just the medication they buried you in. I'm not crazy. I am not crazy. I repeated it every day. To the wall, to the doctors, even to our former head psychiatrist, Dr. Crane. I was not crazy; I was just a goody-goody rich girl, who one day decided to douse a bottle of vodka in one sitting. I'd wanted to forget. Had I known that I would be shut up in this cell, would I still have done what I did? Yes. That's why I'm still here.

It's dark in solitary. I had been here for days, weeks. Or had it been only hours? Shut in here for tonguing my meds. I didn't want any more pills that would send me under the water, making me numb, no more than a paralyzed blob. I didn't open my eyes; there would be no difference. Shifting against the wall, I felt myself fall back, back into open space. I smelled smoke and dust. Screams and shouts filled the air, no different than any usual day. But there was something new; a high-pitched wailing that was growing louder and louder with each passing second: sirens. It was then that I opened my eyes.

My world was on fire. All I saw was read, orange, and yellow. The heat seared every pore on my body. Water built swiftly in my eyes and the smoky dust choked my airways. Alert though my senses were, I couldn't seem to find the will to move. Every limb felt like lead and, in an attempt to stand, I only crumpled back. Using what strength I could muster, I dragged myself back away from the flames, away from Arkham, away from Hell, away…

It was quiet now. The sirens had gone; the screams had died away. People were talking from far off. I caught snippets of what they were saying: "fire", "unknown source of the devastating explosion", and "no known survivors." Wait, I wanted to say. Wait, I'm alive; I'm here. This time, when I opened my eyes, burnt wood and cinderblock impeded my view of my current position. I shifted it all aside, finding my limbs sore and weak. Bright light greeted me, along with a flickering pile of ashes: Arkham Asylum. Nothing remained but some charred framework. Reporters were gathered in a mob in what used to be the courtyard. They could not see me from where I lay, so I sat for a while, watching. There was only one man who did not hold a microphone, camera, or a badge. He stood silent, slightly apart from the crowd, dressed in what looked to be an expensive suit and shoes. His dark, brooding eyes, scanned the ruins.

Slowly, I rose, limping from my place, feeling weaker with each step. Crossing the courtyard, I felt the first rays of sunshine I had in a very long time. How long exactly, I did not know. For time had no meaning in Arkham. Time did not exist. We patients did not exist. We were invisible to society. We were invisible. I was invisible.

Nobody noticed me until I collapsed against the old fountain, crying out in pain. Suddenly, everyone was running, shoes clicking on the uneven stones. Policemen began blowing whistles, yelling for the reporters to, "Get back!" However, someone got to me before they could. Someone who, in a low, smooth voice and expensive-looking shoes asked, "Have you been hurt?" I tried to answer but could not find my voice in the dry remnants of my throat. My head was pounding, the stones of the fountain suddenly disappearing, replaced by dark blue. Someone was holding me, like an exhausted child. And I was, exhausted, I mean, not a child.

I heard cries for 911 and an ambulance. But they sounded far away, warped, like a ruined record. The only sound I could hear was the heartbeat of my carrier. Steady, rhythmic, calm. As he walked, my body rocked gently in time with the click of his shoes on the pavement. Again I heard sirens and more people shouting. I was suddenly placed upon something which felt like a hospital gurney. Ah, it was a hospital gurney. People were talking. So much talking. My mind drifting in and out of consciousness, I only caught scattered phrases and words, but I did hear the voice of the shoes saying he would follow the ambulance in his car. "Very good, Mr. Wayne," replied a clinical-sounding voice. And then the doors shut, the engine rumbled, and the ambulance sped off to Gotham General Hospital.


	2. Waking Up

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm not sure if I like this chapter. I think the whole part with the brother goes too fast...I don't know. But, anywho, here it is.

Chapter 2

Everything was out of focus and linear order. What day was it? Had the doctors given me too much Valium? Or had Dr. Crane returned to Arkham? I lay on something soft; that's a change. All screaming seemed to have ceased; an even bigger change. Trying to lift my arm, I found it pulled back by an invisible string. Turning my head and opening my eyes, I found it was an IV. I was in a white hospital bed, wearing clean clothes and lying on unsoiled sheets. Where was I? Everything returned in a blur: screams, sirens, fire, ash, sun, pain, light, a voice…Gotham General Hospital. I was away from Arkham. I was, for the moment, safe.

Something dark interrupted the white walls, ceiling, and bedspread: a man sitting upon the one chair in the room. It was the same man I had noticed in the crowd this morning. He gazed downward, fiddling with some electronic gadget that was in his hand, not noticing my consciousness. Something about him was vaguely familiar, tugging annoyingly at the back of my brain. His face, I knew it from somewhere, or I thought so at least. Maybe from before my time in Arkham…but almost that entire life was a blur. It did not feel like my life. It was someone else's life. An entirely different person, an entirely different family. My family; had they been notified? Were they already researching a different institution in which to lock me away?

"You're awake," came the smooth voice from the fountain again. The suit in the chair was gazing at me, eyes intently boring into mine. Though slightly off-putting, his gaze was more curious than it was hostile or probing.

"Yes," I managed in a hoarse whisper, cracking my voice. Clearing my throat, I asked, "Who are you?"

"Bruce Wayne." Wayne? The Bruce Wayne? The prodigal son who had disappeared for who knows how many years? That's where I knew him from: I had been present at the trial and appeal of the man who had murdered his parents. I had seen him stand up in court, a traumatized child, and walk away, a hat-filled young man. Then, nothing. He had vanished, which, for a man of his wealth and stature, was quite impressive. He probably wouldn't even remember me: the socialite's daughter who suddenly and swiftly was committed into Arkham. No, that was after his time. He had still been a ghost.

"You're supposed to be dead," was all that my twisted thoughts could coherently speak.

"I guess you didn't hear of my shocking and unexpected return from the grave several years ago," he replied, a slight smile playing upon his face.

Several years ago? What year was it now? How long had I been inside my black prison cell? How could something of such magnitude to the 'right circle' have not made its way to the dark depths of Arkham. "No, I didn't. They don't exactly keep the inmates up to date in the asylum."

"So you were a patient there?" his posture shifting as he spoke.

"Yes," I replied, eyes narrowing. What did he think I had been: a nurse? "My parents sent me there years ago. I'd tell you exactly how long I was in there, but even I'm not certain. It was, however, before you had come back. I think I would've remembered something so mysterious. I really should have recognized you though," I continued.

"Oh?" His eyebrows rose in surprise. "And why is that?"

"You parents were dear friends of my own. I remember when they died: broke my own folks' hearts. I still wish that Falconi hadn't murdered that man who killed your parents. I know everyone in my house wanted to murder him themselves."

His bow contracted in thought, eyes searching mine, looking for a single thing that would spark his memory. "You family?"

"The Hatzlers." The searching stopped, a glint of recognition entering his face.

"You're Amy Hatzler." It wasn't a question, but a confirmation of something he had known all along; or so it seemed, at least.

"Yes."

"You're supposed to be dead as well."

"As you can see, Arkham did not come tumbling down upon me."

"No, I mean, years ago, before I even came back. Your death was printed in Gotham's papers."

Shock. Confusion. Despair. Fury. My parents had abandoned me. No wonder I had remained in Arkham for so long. My mother and father had left me to the mercy of Dr. Crane and his staff for life. I would never have been able to return. "Well, clearly they must have made a mistake. They were all mistaken," my voice sounded hollow, dead. "No," my fury boiling within me, "my parents simply locked me away nice and quietly for what I now know to have been a life sentence."

"For what reason?"

"I was a liability to the family name. I believe Dr. Crane called me a highly distressed depressive; all because I swilled a bottle of vodka." My voice was laced with contempt by the time I finished. "I wasn't crazy," I added.

"Obviously," his thoughts were elsewhere.

"Do my parents know that I'm here?"

"Well, no. You were entered into the hospital as a 'Jane Doe,' but that can all be rearranged now that I know who you are." He got up, reflexively straightening his suit jacket. He leaned out the door. "Nurse?"

"So you believe me?"

He turned, "Of course. I recognize your eyes; they've always been that shade of blue."

So he did remember. Relief washed upon me.

"Nurse, could you please fetch for me a glass of water?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

"Thank you." Turning, he pulled a slim cell phone from his pocket, dialing quickly. "Alfred, can you get in touch with the Hatzler family for me?...Yes, this is important…Fine, yes, I shall speak with the son. What's his name again?...Yes, Ron, of course…Hello, Ron, this is Bruce Wayne. Perhaps you remember-…Yes, that's right…I have some very important matters which I would like to discuss with you, if you don't mind…Thank you very much. Meet me at Gotham General, room 956…And to you. Goodbye." Placing the phone back in his pocket, he turned to me, again serious. "This meeting may not go well. Would your brother have known that you were committed?"

"Ron? No way; we were very close, told each other everything. Mum and Dad wouldn't risk telling him; he would do all he could to get me out if he knew." But there was a nagging suspicion that I couldn't dislodge: if my parents had committed me for life with no intention of ever letting me come home, why shouldn't my brother have been a part of it? No, no, it couldn't be true. There was no way Ron would have allowed that to happen.

Bruce had returned to whatever it was he'd been doing prior to my awakening. So I sat, waiting. At some point the nurse came in with the glass of water, which I drank gratefully. The wait for my brother seemed long, then I recalled that our house, well, mansion, was at least twenty minutes from Gotham General. I wonder what he'd say. I wonder what he'd do when he realized I was alive and well.

"I've found your admissions file," Bruce said suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"Your admissions file into Arkham; I've found it. It was buried under tons of encryptions and codes; seems someone didn't want the world to know that you were in there. The date on the admission and the date of your death in the papers are the same. Apparently you died after hitting your head while falling down the main flight of stairs. No one found you until it was too late; you had suffered a serious sub dermal hematoma and it bled out. However, your admissions sheet says that you were admitted in a highly drunken state, to the point that you would have died of alcohol poisoning, had they not pumped your stomach. In addition, your parents noted sullen, negative behavior and a generally highly pessimistic mood. They seemed to think that you were trying to kill yourself." He looked up. "Were you?"

"No."

"Then why the vodka?"

I turned away, slapping back the instinct which told me I was behaving like a petulant child. "I was bored, I guess."

Speculation. "You're being evasive."

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. You know that your brother will want to know what happened even more than I do."

"Why do you care anyway?" I asked severely. In whipping my head to face Bruce, practically snarling at him, I saw my face reflected in his eyes. Was that me? That haggard, sunken-faced demon who foamed at the mouth, her face twisted in a mask of pure fury? What had happened to me? The hostility died instantly, replaced by a crushing sadness. I couldn't let Bruce see my sadness, my weakness…me. "What's happened to me?" I whispered to myself, traitorous tears brimming over. Again I turned away from Wayne, instead boring a hole into the window with my eyes."

As violently and as harshly as I had reacted, Bruce did not retaliate. I knew not what he did, my face was turned away. Whatever it was that occupied his attention kept him silent. Until someone knocked on the door of the room. "Enter," Bruce said. I heard the whoosh of the door and the clack of shoes on hospital tile.

"Bruce?"

"Ron. I'm glad that you could come on such short notice. I understand this must seem relatively strange to you."

"Honestly, yes, this is rather strange. What can I do for you?"

"Well there is someone here I wanted you to meet."

"Bruce, if this is a promotional thing to help your playboy image, then I-"

"No, it's not. Amy, would you please turn around?"

I almost didn't want to. My breathing had stopped the moment Ron had entered the room. But I had not come this far and suffered this much to fall dumb now. Slowly, I turned my head and gazed into a pair of familiar green eyes that widened in perceptible shock and (what seemed like) horror. "Hello, Ron," I said quietly.

"Amy? Is that really you? I don't believe this. Bruce! What the hell sort of stunt are you pulling, Bruce?"

"It is no stunt, old friend."

"But Amy died years ago! She-she fell when no one was home…when I wasn't home."

"No I didn't, Ron. Mum and Dad committed me into Arkham Asylum."

If Ron had been shocked and horrified before, it was nothing to how he looked now. His whole body seemed to crumple inward, as if someone had kicked the air from his lungs, and he sank into the plastic chair by the door. "What? How? Why?"

"Because I drank a bottle of vodka."

"You and I used to sneak liquor all the time and they knew it. What difference would one bottle of-"

"In one sitting, Ron. They decided I was too dangerous to the family name, so they committed me…for life."

Tears streamed down Ron's cheeks and his whole body shook. "I should have been there. I would have stopped them. I would never have let them do that if I had known. I would have gotten you out. I swear, Amy."

"I know, Ron. I know."

"Did the bourbon have to do with-"

"Yes. Please, let's not talk about that right now."

Ron glanced quickly at Bruce, who was intently and unabashedly following our conversation, and then back at me. I nodded imperceptibly as I could: he did not need to know; I did not want him to know. "How did you survive? I saw on the television this morning that Arkham was destroyed last night?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Maybe it's because I was in solitary."

"Solitary?" Bruce asked, his brow furrowed, eyes piercing mine.

"Solitary confinement. It was used as a punishment for 'unruly patients.' It's a room reinforced by who knows what material with only a door which has a slat near the top for food. I had been placed in there for tonguing my medication. Nobody listens to crazy people, especially when they won't admit they're crazy."

"What do you mean?"

"I hollered at them every single time that they tried to give me medication. I didn't want it because I didn't need it. It got to the point that they used to have to strap me down to a table and inject me with the medication so that I would take it. Al the medication did was make me a useless blob: blind, deaf, and dumb to anything and everything that they did. Unless, of course, Dr. Crane was overseeing me." I shuddered. The horrors of Dr. Crane's sessions were almost as bad as…no; they were just short of that nightmare. "But that was a while ago. From what I gathered, Dr. Crane is incarcerated."

"Yes, he is," Ron replied, "thanks to the Batman."

"Who?"

"The Batman."

"Who is the Batman?"

"Gotham's latest crime fighter," Bruce answered brusquely. Clearly he didn't have a high opinion of the Batman, whoever he was…whatever he was. "I think that my presence is no longer needed here, I shall tell the nurses to adjust your check-in information and be on my way. Oh, Ron, I do hope you and your sister shall stop by next week for a party I am having at Wayne Manor. It has finally been fully completed and I wish to celebrate it in true fashion."

"That's very kind of you, Bruce; we shall be delighted to attend."

Bruce smiled briefly and quickly began to make his exit. "Thank you!" I cried, just as his back turned out of sight. "Ron, what are you going to do about Mum and Dad? They aren't going to be pleased that I am coming home."

My brother was silent for a few moments, struggling with how to articulate something. "Mum and Dad are dead, Amy. They died a year ago: car accident."

"Oh," was all I could pathetically manage. I should have been crushed, crying to learn that my parents had been killed. But the sting of their betrayal still rang with intensity in my heart, so I simply settled for a sigh. Nothing else came to mind except for the strange behavior of the mysterious Mr. Wayne. What had happened to him in all this time?


	3. A Silken Pool of Blood

Author's Note: Okay, back again with a fairly short chapter. Not the best work, it kind of feels like filler...I don't know. But I can promise that the next chapter will be longer because Bruce's party should be full of stuff to write.

Chapter 3

I hate this room. I didn't used to always hate this room, it was mine after all. Wide, floor-length windows overlooked the gardens that had been my mother's pride and joy. She had loved those flowers and trees more than her own life, more than my life. The pale green walls, marked by posters of old bands and male actors looked dirty from years of disuse. Old stuffed animals smiled sickly at me with blank black eyes. Go away, I wanted to say. Leave me alone.

On the desk, in guilt silver frame sat my senior portrait, my blue eyes shining with the promise of a glorious, successful future that would never come. I couldn't stay here. I couldn't look at this room any longer, this room which was not mine, that belonged to some other girl, some other life. She had been so happy, so full of life. So much joy was saturated in the walls, furniture, and possessions…I wanted to cry. I envied that girl; I hated that girl; I wanted to scribble her out, draw a giant "X" over her face and her smile.

My breath came out in harsh gasps; heart beating a frantic pace, full anxiety and pain crippling my senses. I needed to leave, I needed to-

"Hey, Amy, I got you a dress for Bruce's party." Ron's pleasantry broke my tortured reverie, his own smile fading as he gathered my expression. "Are you alright?" he asked, dropping the gown on the comforter and striding toward me. "What's wrong?"

I gaped like a fish out of water, dying to catch my breath, struggling to form even two words together. What was my brother saying? A dress on the bed, a party: Bruce's housewarming party. "Of course, I am fine." My voice was off, robotic. I attempted to twist my face into a smile, but it felt stiff, my face probably looking just sick. "Thank you for the dress. I need to change, excuse me." Without a glance at the fabric on the bed, I grabbed the dress and attempted to brush past my brother, who stopped me, grabbing my shoulders gently and attempting to meet my gaze.

"Hey? Are you alright? You haven't seemed yourself since we got back from the hospital. You've been withdrawn, distant."

What did he expect: me to be who I was, once so very long ago? "I'm fine," I mechanically responded. I had tried; for about a few days I had tried to re-enter this world of the elite and of the light. But I couldn't take it; I had drowned in it. The pale walls of my room were closing in on me, threatening to crush me beneath their weight.

"Amy, I'm your brother and I'm not stupid. I understand you well enough to know when you're not fine, and if you hadn't had the experience you did in Arkham, I would recommend you talk to someone, because you don't talk to me…you don't really talk at all." His lips moved, murmuring something else, something too low for me to hear.

He was right. I hated when he was right. But right he was nonetheless. I could not simply walk into the light, embracing who I once was, who I was supposed to be. I was damaged beyond repair, damaged goods. "Ron, I-"my voice trailed. No. I would not, for tonight, wallow. Tonight, I would play the part; I would be Amy Hatzler as she had been.

With this resolution planted as firmly as could be in my mind, I looked into my brother's face. "I want to go to this party. Perhaps you should finish dressing so that I may change." My voice was light, though my eyes remained guarded, hiding the true depth of the hole that threatened to consume me.

And Ron, whether he believed my show or not, let go of my shoulders with a slight squeeze, and again left me alone. Good ol' Ron, he'd always been empathic to everyone and everything. I used to joke that he go into therapy, then maybe he could work on my crazy brain. Irony's icy knife stabbed cruelly. Now, to other matters; there was a party for which I had to play the consummate actress. I had to be fine. I had to be happy. I had to be.

The dress lay on the bed, surrounded by grey plastic coverings and price tags. Ron. He never did remember to tear off price tags on anything, not even his own clothes. This little insignificant fact made me smile for the first time in years. It was a small smile, barely playing upon my lips, but it was indeed a smile. Unwrapping the mummy-like layering, I found a dress of deep crimson, which, after it slid off the bed into a silken pile at my feet, reminded me of a pool of blood…

I was shaking, shivering, gazing about hopelessly for some form of salvation, someone or something that would save me from this hell. My arms were tied to the headboard, the rope chafing what skin was left on my wrists. Every limb felt wrong, as if someone had undone all every joint in my body, replacing bones with jelly. I screamed and cried, but it was all muffled by the gag that had been twisted round my mouth. Someone, please…kill me…

But there were no ropes, no cloth muting my voice, no terror gripping my soul. There was only me, alone in my former bedroom, staring at a dress the color of blood. For what seemed like an eternity, I simply gazed blankly at the dress, losing myself in its fluid folds, trying desperately to clear the turbulence which rocked my brain. As if from some long-forgotten moment in time, words ghosted their way through my consciousness. "Hide your face so the world will never find you," I whispered. How appropriate.


End file.
